Chapter 5 Alessandro
Chapter Five
ALESSANDRO
The car ride is silent.
It is a silence that has texture. Grit. We sit on opposite sides of the leather bench seat, the partition raised, the city blurring past the tinted windows in streaks of rain-slicked neon.
Killian is pressed against the door, staring out at the darkness.
His leg bounces—a rapid, erratic rhythm that vibrates through the chassis of the car.
He is radiating heat. The car smells of him—musk, sweat, alcohol. It’s suffocating. I crack the window an inch, letting the cold damp air of the city hiss into the cabin.
He turns his head.
"Too real for you?" he asks. His voice is rough, damaged by the whiskey.
"The air is stale."
"You’re stale." He shifts, sprawling his legs until his knee knocks against mine. He doesn't pull back. He leaves it there, a heavy, intrusive point of contact. "You sit there like you’re made of ice. Do you even bleed, Falcone? Or is it just hydraulic fluid inside?"
I look at his knee, then up at his face. "I bleed when it’s necessary. Tonight, I prefer to keep the upholstery clean."
He stares at me. His eyes drop to my mouth, then to my hands folded in my lap. He looks at me with a mix of hunger and revulsion that is more unsettling than the anger.
"We’ll see," he mutters.
The car stops. My building. The glass tower that has been my sanctuary for five years.
We walk through the lobby in silence. I ignore the night staff. I ignore the security cameras. I am focused entirely on the heavy, brooding presence following me.
The elevator ride is short. The doors open directly into the penthouse.
Killian steps inside. He stops in the center of the living room, turning in a slow circle. He takes in the floor-to-ceiling glass, the white leather furniture, the absolute, sterile order of my life.
"Nice cage," he says.
"It’s a home."
"It’s a museum." He walks to the window and looks down at the city sixty stories below. "Can’t even open a window, can you? Just hermetically sealed with your money."
I take off my jacket. I fold it carefully over the back of a chair. I loosen my tie.
"The guest room is down the hall," I say. "Second door on the left. I suggest you use it."
He turns around slowly.
"Guest room."
"Yes."
"You marry me in front of the families. You bind my name to yours. And then you try to stick me in the guest room like a piece of furniture you don't know where to put."
"I am trying to give you space to sober up."
"I don't want space!"
He roars the word. He crosses the room in three long strides. The air changes instantly—charged, violent.
"I am your husband," he snarls, invading my personal space. "That’s what the paper says. That’s what the judge said. So why are you treating me like a whore you’re ashamed of?"
"I am treating you like a drunk."
"A drunk?" He laughs. "No. You’re treating me like a threat. Because you’re scared."
"I am not scared of you, Killian."
"Liar."
He reaches out and grabs my chin. His fingers dig into my jaw, rough and bruising.
"I can see it in your eyes," he whispers. "You’re terrified. You’re wondering what the monster is going to do now that he’s inside the house."
I knock his hand away. "Don't touch me."
"Or what?" He steps closer, forcing me to back up until my calves hit the edge of the sofa. "You’ll call your father? You’ll call Rocco? They aren't here, Prince. It’s just us."
"Killian, back off."
"Make me."
I try to step around him. He catches me. He grabs my upper arms, his grip crushing, and shoves me backward. I trip over the rug and land hard on the floor, the impact jarring my spine.
Before I can scramble up, he is on me. He straddles my hips, pinning me to the rug with his weight. He is heavy—solid, immovable mass.
"Get off me!"
"No." He leans down, his face inches from mine. "You wanted this. You signed the contract. You bought the ride, now you take the trip."
He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head with one hand. His grip is iron. With his other hand, he fumbles with his belt. The buckle jingles—a frantic, metallic sound. He undoes his fly.
"Open your mouth."
I stare up at him. "Go to hell."
"Open it!"
He grabs my jaw, squeezing the hinges until my mouth pops open involuntarily. He doesn't wait. He shoves himself in.
It is violent. He forces past my teeth, hitting the back of my throat with a dry, brutal thrust that makes me gag. Tears spring to my eyes instantly. I try to twist my head away, but he holds me there, using my face to get off.
"Take it," he growls. "Suck it, Prince. Taste what you bought."
He moves his hips, snapping them forward. He isn't looking at me. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face twisted in a grimace of rage. He uses my mouth like a warm sleeve, grinding into the back of my throat, making me choke. He tastes of salt and hate.
It goes on for what feels like hours. My jaw aches. I can't breathe. Every time I try to inhale, he thrusts deeper.
"That's it," he pants. "Choke on it. You look good like that. Like a whore."
He pulls out abruptly. I gasp for air, coughing, saliva trailing down my chin.
He isn't done.
He hauls me up by my shirtfront. He drags me across the room, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the polished floor. He marches me to the window.
He spins me around and slams me chest-first against the glass. The impact knocks the wind out of me again. The glass is freezing against my skin, a shock after the heat of his body.
"Hands on the glass," he barks.
I hesitate.
He slams his hand into the small of my back, forcing me forward. "Do it!"
I put my hands on the glass. The city is spread out below us—millions of lights, indifferent witnesses.
He rips my shirt open. Buttons pop and scatter across the floor. He tears at my belt, undoing it, and yanks my trousers and briefs down to my thighs. The cool air of the penthouse hits my skin. I feel exposed. Vulnerable in a way I haven't been since I was a child.
"Spread your legs."
I widen my stance. I have no choice. He kicks my ankles apart until I am braced wide.
I hear him spit into his hand. It’s a wet, degrading sound. He reaches down and smears the saliva over my entrance. It’s cold. It’s not enough.
"This is going to hurt," he says against my ear. His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through my spine. "I want it to hurt."
He lines himself up. He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks.
He drives forward.
A scream tears out of my throat. I can't stop it. It feels like being split open with a hot iron. He is too big, and I am too tight. The dry skin tears. The muscle seizes.
"Fuck," he grunts, pushing harder.
He forces his way in. Inch by agonizing inch. I am stretched beyond capacity. I feel full to the point of bursting. The pain is blinding—white-hot flashes behind my eyes.
He bottoms out. His hips slam against my buttocks with a wet, heavy thud.
I hang my head, gasping, my forehead resting against the cold glass. I feel impaled.
He holds still for a moment. He is shaking. I can feel the tremors running through his body, vibrating into mine. He buries his face in the curve of my neck.
"You're mine," he whispers. "Paper says you're mine. Law says you're mine. Now you know it."
He pulls back.
And slams home.
It is agony. It is pure friction. Every thrust is a raw abrasion. He sets a rhythm that is punishing—fast, hard, deep. My forehead bumps against the glass with every impact—thud, thud, thud—a hollow metronome keeping time with my destruction.
"Make a sound," he demands. He reaches around and wraps his hand around my throat, squeezing. "I know you feel this. Scream for me, wife. Let me hear you break."
I bite my lip until I taste copper. I will not give him that. I stare at my reflection in the dark glass—my face pale, eyes wide, mouth bloody. I focus on the pain. I try to separate myself from it.
It is just sensation, I tell myself. Just nerves firing. Just biology.
But it’s not just biology. It’s hatred.
He fucks me harder. Desperate now. Angry that I won't shatter. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look at the ceiling.
"You think you're better than me?" He pants, his sweat dripping onto my shoulder. "You think you're above this? You're just a hole. Just a warm place to dump my hate."
He speeds up. The rhythm becomes erratic, animalistic. He isn't making love; he's mauling me. He grinds his hips against mine, seeking friction, seeking release.
He bites me.
His teeth sink into the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. Hard. Breaking the skin. I hiss in pain, my nails scrabbling against the glass.
"That's it," he growls. "Bleed for me."
He drives into me one last time, bottoming out so deep I choke on a sob. He comes with a roar, a guttural, wrecked sound that vibrates through my spine. He spasms against me, pouring himself inside, hot and messy and violating.
He stays there, collapsed against my back, his heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. His breath is harsh in my ear.
Then he pulls out.
The emptiness is sudden and sickening. I feel the slide of his seed running down my leg, foreign and sticky. My knees buckle. I slide down the glass until I am kneeling on the floor, my forehead resting against the cool pane.
Silence falls.
The only sound is our breathing—his ragged, mine shallow.
I wait.
I count to five.
I push myself up. My legs are shaking violently. I pull up my briefs, my trousers. I fumble with the belt, my fingers numb.
I turn around.
Killian is standing there, trying to fix his clothes. His hands are shaking so bad he can't do his zipper. He looks at me.
He looks at my flushed face. At the bite mark bleeding on my neck. At the bruise forming on my jaw. At the way I am standing perfectly still, watching him.
The green in his eyes has changed. The adrenaline is gone. The rage has burned out, consumed by the act. And what is left in the ashes is horror.
He looks at what he did. He looks at the man he just assaulted. And he realizes that he didn't break me. He broke himself.
The color drains from his face. He looks like he's going to be sick.
"Don't wait up," he rasps. His voice is cracked, ruined. He can't even meet my eyes.
He turns and runs. He stumbles toward the bathroom, colliding with the doorframe before disappearing inside. The door slams. The lock clicks. The shower turns on instantly—a desperate rush of water.
I am alone.
My throat hurts. My ass throbs. My legs feel like lead. The bite on my shoulder burns.
I walk to the kitchen. My movements are stiff, mechanical. I pour a glass of water. My reflection in the dark window watches me—hair mussed, shirt torn open, eyes dark and empty.
I touch the bite mark. My fingers come away red.
Good.
He thinks this was a victory. He thinks he took something from me. He thinks that by forcing my body, he has conquered my mind.
He is wrong.
He just gave me the weapon I need to destroy him. Shame is a powerful lever, and Killian Kavanagh is drowning in it.
I finish the water. I walk to my bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, feeling the burn of him still inside me.
I do not cry. Falcones do not cry.
I begin to plan.